The Words Unsaid
by Her Name Is Erika
Summary: You should have broken more just than his toe in eighth grade, because that would have settled the score. DanaLogan. QuinnLogan. For Talar.


**A/N: This is just something that came to me at the most random time – actually while brushing my teeth this morning. It's actually a companion piece to something I wrote in August called, You Should Have Lied. It's not mandatory that you piece to get the gist of this piece, but you can if you want it. It's just a Dana-centric piece. There's an even contrast between Quinn/Logan & Dana/Logan so everyone's happy. But there's angst simply because I feel like it. So, deal. I'm going to say that this is set between May-June 2008.**

**Disclaimer: No, and I don't own Rehab, by Rihanna either.**

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On the third day after you wrote that letter, you burned it.

You burned it, somewhere far away from your fancy French school. You burned it, and watched the corners of the white lined paper curl and bend. The letter blackened underneath the bright orange-reddish flame while it shrunk and become nothing at all. It became nothing at all but thin, black ash.

Some of it stayed mingled with the green grass, but the majority of it was carried away by the wind.

You left the words unsaid, "Forcefully easy to come, willingly hard to go."

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On the seventh day after you wrote that letter, you stood in a full length mirror.

You stood there with a quiet sigh, observing the straight highlighted hair that grew out and stopped at your mid-back.

Everyone knew your hair was naturally curly with light brown highlights because you told them. You told everyone your hair was naturally curly because you didn't want to hear how long it took for you to actually curl your hair like that. People said your hair was naturally set in those big curls when it wasn't. But hey, you didn't feel like you should have to justify anything, much less you hair, to anyone. It was stupid, and you absolutely couldn't stand anywhere that reeked of stupid. So, you let everyone believe whatever they wanted to.

You left the following words unsaid, "My hair is naturally straight, so shut the fuck up and just deal with it!"

You looked at yourself in that full-length mirror, and instead of plugging your famous curling iron in and fooling the world, you felt your blood boil and everything starting to crumble.

So, you grabbed a pair of shiny silver scissors that sat in your night table.

"Dana, why do you have scissors on you?" came your roommate's confused and slightly worried voice. You used to be irritated by her, but after three years with her as your roommate, she was the one who opened yourself up to, and she was the way who let you cry on her shoulder even though she didn't know why. Tears you wanted to keep in because it wasn't worth it, broke like a dam and flowed down your cheeks.

Besides, Morgan was one of the few Americans you knew, and her Southern accent reminded you of Zoey, but you knew how to separate the two, definitely. Morgan was a red-head with sparkling green eyes and a curvy girl. She had light freckles that lined her button nose prominently, and a friendly disposition with a smile to match.

You whipped around, seeing Morgan's eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape.

"Look," you sigh, just getting to the point. "Either you stop gaping and cut my hair or I'm just gonna do it myself."

"But why?" Morgan questioned, with a hint of concern as her eyes remained glued to the sight of your fingers curled around the other end of the scissors. You pointed that handles in her direction, eyes narrowed just silently let her know you were serious.

You wanted to do this.

You _needed_ to do this. You needed to fucking do this.

"Does it matter?" you almost snapped because she recoiled and quietly sighed when she opened her hand, palm up and accepted the scissors. You didn't even know you were grasping them so tightly until you let go and small thudding mixed with a medley of cramping replaced a comfortable numbness let you know. Did time really go by that slow?

Morgan was silent as she grabbed a fine comb, and a brush. She made you sit cross-legged as you felt her hover over you. You closed your eyes, feeling her brush sections of your hair. You wanted to hear the scissors cut through your hair, and get a view of the locks of hair falling down to the carpet. Still, you heard that quiet sigh that made you feel a twinge of irritation, but had enough control over your infamous rage to know that Morgan was merely concerned.

The concerned kind that made you actually feel like someone was looking out for her aside from her family.

Not the type of concern that made you want to stab your eyes out, or shoot yourself in the ear so you were deaf from all of the incessant, "Are you okay?" and "I'm sorry".

"Dana, seriously, why do you want to cut your hair?"

"If I go to a hair salon, the person won't ask me why." you quipped, with a roll of your eyes. It was a force of habit that was imprinted in your mannerisms. Sure, they were provoked, but they couldn't be erased.

"That salon person doesn't care!" Morgan yelled at you came into full view. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears and light up with rage at all once. Her pale complexion became splotched with tinges of reddish-pink, and her Southern accent becomes thicker with every word. "You're the strongest person I know, and I found you sitting on at dorm floor crying like something had just died! I let you cry on me, and had your tears on my shirt!"

"Morgan – "

"No, Dana," she said, and softened, tucking a lock of straight hair behind her right ear with triple piercings: two at the lobe and one by the cartilage. "I may never know why, but I ask because I care about you. Are you ever going to tell me?"

You thought it over.

You tore your gaze away from Morgan's and crossed your arms, lips pressed together and pursed.

It was simply a method of suppression, and slightly keeping your sanity in check.

"Deal with it, Morgan," was your short reply and you felt your roommate deflate. So, you hurt her and you shut up the one person you could open up to. It was a freaking oxymoron, a complete contradictory term. You brought Morgan closer, and pushed her away all at once. The redhead stood up and you could feel her brush and tease your hair again.

It was a mere distraction, a distraction from three years ago, a distraction from the kiss in the rain.

You should have slapped him afterwards when you had the opportunity.

The wetness would have made it sting like a bitch, but you couldn't. You couldn't because you gave him your heart without hesitancy. And then he had to crap it back out effortlessly. Ten days after, the question of "Why Quinn?" plagued you like a damn disease. You really didn't find Quinn annoying, just weird, but why her? It was pathetic, but still you questioned this silently. You could hear the gentle sound of the brush. You could feel the formation of the layered fringed bangs you secretly wanted. You could see the sections of hair float to the ground, your hair getting and shorter. You thought it would take a long time, but there was a layered hair cut, staring back at you.

The lighter highlights stood out mostly in your fringed side bangs. You loved the way they fell in your brown eyes and the short, layered haircut was quite easy to manage. Morgan dropped the silver scissors on her bed, and put the brush and comb away before you stood, examining it more. You had to admit that Morgan did a great job.

"Thanks."

She nodded, carrying the newspaper containing your hair, crumpled it up and pressed her foot on the trash pedal. You watched pieces of her hair – pieces of the same hair you spent growing out, three years of the guy you spent aimlessly wanting to slap, strangle, impale, castrate, hug, kiss and love at all the same time.

And you hated, absolutely hated, that you didn't get any closure.

"You're welcome, Dana."

You left the following words unsaid, "I'm hung up on a guy that I left three years ago, and hate myself for being so fucking pathetic. Thanks for the cool hair."

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On the twelfth day, your phone rang.

Your Blackberry Slice vibrated with a loud buzz, and you muttered a string of swear words. You were still a cranky person, even more so when awakened at three in the morning Paris time. Sure, the nightmares you were killed when a hairdryer's cord strangled you while Nicole giggled psychotically were less frequent, but it was a crime to interrupt while sleeping. Seriously.

You took her vibrating phone as quickly as a half-asleep, pissed off person could and snuck out before Morgan could fully wake up. All she did was mutter a bunch of things you couldn't understand or care less for, and put the phone to your double pierced ear.

"You know it's a crime to wake someone up, even if that one is your daughter."

"I didn't look at the time difference," your mother explained, and you could hear that defensiveness in her tone, sounding loud and clear. "After twenty hours of labour, delivery via C-section and seventeen years, I don't think I should have to."

You rolled her eyes, sighed and leaned against the wall, sliding down it.

An arm went around your knees as if to hug them, and all too familiar position, "Mama. I get it. You gave birth to me. Now, why'd you call? What's up? Is Ariel okay?"

Ariel was your eight year old sister. You were her protector, and one of the people you would truly look out for and protect. You actually missed her, but this time, you told yourself it was pretty normal because she was your baby sister. It wasn't something you could hate and chastise yourself for. But once again, both feelings of longing couldn't be helped. Just like you missing your dad when your parents separated, but at least your father had a relationship with you and your sister. That was expected, though.

"Yes, everything's in fine, but I've been thinking and frankly, mija, I miss you. Ariel misses you," your mom told you, sincerity laced in her voice. "So, I want to know if you want to go back to PCA, and actually start your senior year with your cousin. I talked about it already with your Tia Angela, and Lola will be happy to see you again."

"Go back?" you questioned, the words feeling weird of your tongue. "As in fly back to the States, back to San Diego, and then start PCA in September?"

"Exactly. You've done a great job in France. So just tell me now. I have your ticket ready."

You suppressed the quietest of sigh. The wall made your back cramp, and you cursed you rested your head backwards against the cream coloured walls. There were so many questions running through your already congested head. Would you really be ready to go back to a place where everything had changed? Would the friends you left behind three years ago, aside from Michael and possibly Chase, even recognized you? It didn't matter, because apparently things changed. You missed them regardless, and the silence on your end forced your mother to break your short, reverie.

"Dana, the decision is yours. All you have to do is tell me you want to come back to the States."

Your heart twisted. Your stomach clenched, while maintaining that sleepy demeanor that left you as soon as PCA fell from your mother's lips.

Damnit.

"Okay, okay," you concluded, and faked a yawn over the phone; even your mother couldn't see it. You sighed, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders. You should have played that stupid basketball game from the beginning. You should have really made him cry even when he put the idea of you kissing him. You should have got him back when Logan snapped your bra strap against your skin, making you yell out. "I'll go back."

Your mother's voice grew excited.

Your mother said a goodbye with a, "Te quiero". You replied, and hung up first.

Hugging your knees to her chest, you rested your head on them, and that déjà vu hit you in the face.

You felt no words unsaid.

Because there were no coherent things you could form in your current state of mind.

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On the sixteenth day, it was the second to last day of school.

The teacher slapped a thick exam booklet in front of you, and told you along with the entire class to begin – in French, of course. You rolled your eyes in that typical Dana Cruz manner when something was just so fucking overbearing.

"Bonne chance," the teacher said, finally when the last booklet was handled out.

You knew this stuff. You studied it well. Studying was better to do as a distraction from the sunny beaches of California, shopping on the boardwalk not too far away. You were happy from the Eiffel Tower.

You only wished if you had the foresight to see that Logan Reese would break your heart, you would most definitely not pass up the opportunity to shove him off the top if it ever came up. No, that was only because you were bitter.

And even hurt.

God, you were so going to choke that bastard for turning you into one of _those_ girls.

Then your pencil broke in your tight grasp as you scribbled down the last essay question.

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On the seventeenth day after you wrote that letter, Morgan hugged you goodbye with tears streaming down her cheeks, making black tracks down her cheeks.

"Dana," the redhead sobbed, and offered you a smile. "I'm gonna miss you so, so much."

You smiled genuinely for once, row of teeth and all, and put an arm around her. There was the Louis Vutton bag your cousin gave you for your seventeenth birthday this past February, sitting on your shoulder with your carry-ons around your sneakered feet. Your style had changed a little in the last three years – still tough and tomboyish with the touch of feminine style.

You appreciated denim jeans, but have a considerable pair of skinny ones. It was best just not to ask.

Morgan was going back to Texas, while you headed back to California, Back to where everything began. Back to everything you left behind to fly across the Atlantic. You hugged her and released her, with her promising to keep in touch with you.

"I'll miss you too."

A loud honking came up, and a taxi pulled up to you. Morgan smiled, and waved at you one more time before you were loading your bags in the back and slammed the back door when you please your leg in. The slam was so final and so definite and you felt the car move forward – out of the school and onto the Paris street with the Arc De Triumph and Eiffel Tower, hard to miss.

"L'aeroport, mademoiselle?"

That was a stupid question to ask, but you bit your tongue and focused all of your energy on swallowing that giant, and annoying lump, gaining size in your throat.

"Oui."

You pulled the oversized glasses over your eyes, before the wetness had the chance to show up.

You were crying for an entirely different reason now. It was like a fucking broken road, even for you.

This _had_ to stop.

You left the following words unsaid, "They call me Danger Cruz, and I'm a pitiful crying mess. Thanks, Reese."

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On the nineteenth day, you were back home. Actually, you arrived at the airport later on the seventeenth day, but God, did it ever feel good to have your own bed again. You weren't sure if you were just jet lagged, or your time was just messed, trying to get used to the Pacific Time again, but sleep felt good. Your room was just the way you left it, and the last time you inhabited it this place was last summer.

You were sleeping, evenly breathing, dreaming, in a state of relaxation, until the sky above you became stormy and dark. The sky rumbled low, loose drops of precipitation fell on your nose and your eyes were wide and sweeping over the place – just wondering where the hell you were. How did you get here from the comforts of home to…this? Another bang made you slightly flinch because of your utter dislike of thunderstorms, even though you loved the rain.

You loved the rain, even when it poured. You found it refreshing against your tanned skin, and made it your hair straight, so no why had to question why your hair was like that. If they did, the person would be acquainted with your fist or a withering glare from afar. You were standing on a beach, and there was another female figure there – younger than you even though not by a lot.

Your eyes flickered to the sky below, which turned into an icky grey.

The precipitation became a drizzle, and soaked you and the two other people on the beach alone.

"I guess, this is it, huh?"

"Yeah, this is goodbye, and I didn't even get to do what I wanted on my list: donate some money to charity, get revenge on the number of detentions you got me, and actually break your toe this time for invading personal space."

"Since when do you donate to charity?"

"I should be asking you the same question, Reese."

"Hey!" the boy defended, just fourteen years old. "At least I'm honest. I'm honest enough to admit, I don't donate most of the time. I don't have denial issues."

"And I do?"

You watched as a smirk graced his features, but could do nothing. Your mouth felt like it was taped shut, and your slippers glued to the beach floor. Seriously, what the fuck? If you had the chance, you would have told your fourteen-year-old self to slap him, and fly to Paris without looking back. It would hurt, but it was for your own good.

He nodded, "Yeah, you do. Just admit you like me. You're leaving for good, Dana. At least I know I like you, and I'm not just saying that because I want lip-on-lip action."

"Really?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm into you."

The girl with those freakishly caramel curls studied him before faltering and finally pressing her lips to his. You watched, mouth agape as he reached up, deepening that kiss. Her eyes fluttered closed, as she played with the sandy brown curls he kept intact, but they seemed not to care. Another crash and boom combination made the girl pulled away roughly at first, staring with wide eyes unsure of what to say.

Your stomach twisted, your heart shattered because you just knew what happened next, even though it was just a dream.

When your eyes opened, and focused, you yawned with that lingering sinking feeling still making you hollow.

And you hated that it was a reality.

You hated that you still couldn't say anything but your sister hugged your waist tightly when she saw you in the upstairs hallway. You smirked playfully, while stroking her soft brown natural curls, "Boys are stupid, okay?"

Ariel sent a smile your way and nodded, "I know, Dee. Cooties, remember?"

You watched her skip off, and when she was gone, you sighed angrily, almost envious.

If only it were that easy.

Dealing with the male species was confusing.

Dealing with the likes of Logan Reese was downright irritating.

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On the twenty-second day, you dialed your cousin's number and told her.

You told her you were coming to see her.

And then you hung up and reprimanded yourself for tearing down your big, tall wall in the first place. Especially when it was done built already and all.

Oh, you made sure you damned yourself because your pillow got a good screaming into.

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On the twenty-third day, you took your mother Pontiac for a drive, since she had to take Ariel for a doctor's appointment and used the Jeep instead. The car was black with leather interior, and you found a new therapeutic thing when it came to driving. Clad in just a black tank and skinny jeans, you only took your lip gloss, wallet, phone and the car keys and zoomed down the California freeways. You were relaxed in the seat, but yet still attentive to what went on around you.

Driving gave control. It gave you a chance to do whatever the hell you wanted to with no one take that rug from under your feet off guard. You felt the wind blow your short hair back, brushing against your skin and oversized shades covering your brown eyes. You passed a purple Welcome to PCA sign because it was of your own free-will. No one put a gun to your head and hijacked the car, making you turn into an opening. Oh God, you were parallel parking too.

Still, that cloud of anticipation hung over when you stepped out, slamming the door behind you. You stuffed the essentials plus car keys in their appropriate pockets and set out walking. So, this was the PCA you would be starting up back again in September. This was the PCA you were going to come back into. It's like everything was on pause – everything stopped, everything froze – before you had to bring a finger to push that imaginary play button. But you watched everything play out, students bustling and going on with their daily lives.

You wanted something to calm you down, and figured an average javaccino would help you.

"Can I have an average javaccino?"

You wrinkled your nose slightly at that Costumer of the Week board, plastered with some stupidly, delirious girl's picture on the front.

The coffee cart guy smiled at you, "Can I get a date with you?"

You felt your blood boil, and takes your shades off, perching it on your head, so the only thing sort of covering your eyes – or eye – was your highlighted bangs. Brushing them away, you put on a saccharine sweet smile.

"I would definitely love to kick your ass right now," you told him, smile dropping from your face as quickly as it came. You glared. "So, I'll cut you a deal: give me my coffee and I'll just walk away without damaging you."

"Okay, but you know any girls that would want to date me?"

"Coffee! Now!" you barked, losing your cool, finally. You finally snapped like a twig that been placed under someone's expensive shoe while blindly trekking through the woods. You broke anger radiating through you. The longest string of obscenities flooded your head in a merge of French and Spanglish. "It would be a fucking crime if someone dated you! I just want my – "

You felt someone grab you and turn you around in a hasty attempt, as if the world had tuned into your meltdown, the prying eyes only upsetting you and making you wish you could kick an infinite amount of ass in the quickest of time. You were prepared to cause of collateral damage to mystery stranger until you heard his voice, his grip on you loosening a little.

"Okay, okay. There's no more to see. Turn around and carry on!"

You recognized him the most because he never really changed. His smile gave him away, easily and you felt your body relax. He laughed lightly, walking away from the coffee stand, thoughts of your average javaccino disappearing.

"I almost didn't recognize you until I realized only _you_ would try to claw the coffee guy's eyes out."

You allowed a smirk to grace your face, lightly shoving him even though Michael towered over you, and then you smiled, god you actually smiled, with a sense of temporary relief.

And then he hugged you. He hugged you, and you return the gesture, discretely biting your lip behind you when his arms wrapped around your waist, so you wouldn't come undone even more than before. You bit your lip until you could taste the coppery tint of your own blood on your tongue. He released you and you released your bottom lip from your teeth's discrete clinch-like grip when it clicked in your brain that you were hurting yourself.

Fuck.

"I missed you, kiddo," you admitted, as you walked, but nudged him with your elbow.

"I'm older than you."

"And I'm tougher and could kick your ass if I really wanted to."

Michael puts his hands up in mock surrender, "Okay, you win."

You win that little banter, and you walk around until you realize why you're here. You may have intended to see your cousin, and you promised yourself you would. But bumping into Michael seemed to be the best thing that ever happened today because you had to know. You needed to know how exactly Logan and Quinn happened, why it happened, and why it could possibly happen in the first place.

You just wanted to get one thing straight, or a few: You never hated Quinn. And you never had a leash on Logan, but the fact of the matter was you still, after three years, loved the guy and it was getting ridiculous. If you had the choice, you'd torture yourself before actually admitting it out loud. Or kick your own butt to make everything stop.

"Michael," you said, firmly and grabbed his arm to make him stop walking after you did. You looked him straight in the eyes and spoke. "Look, just tell me how this whole Logan and Quinn thing started, because I don't get it."

He remained silent for a few seconds, and then shrugged lightly, "Okay, but Dana, do you still have anything for the guy?"

You were silent and Michael knew you well enough, not to press any farther.

You left these words unsaid as you followed into a building you'd never seen before and a dorm – probably the dorm still in the same roommate pattern: Michael, Chase, and Logan. It had _always_ been that way.

"Dude, you're my best friend, but stay out of my head."

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It was still the twenty-second day, since you wrote that letter.

You wondered loosely about the ashes of aforementioned letter. And wondered when the hell your cell phone would ring. You were hoping it was your mother, and then you slapped yourself mentally for being a little chicken shit.

Michael let you enter first, and you really didn't know what you could say.

Framed pictures were all over the walls, and two on the tables. One of Michael holding a quite pretty smile girl to him, another of Zoey in black in white and it didn't take a genius to realize who that belonged to at all. Another had your cousin with Chase, big smiles on their face, and eyes glittering bright. There was a final framed picture that caught your eye and your attention. The gold framed glittered in the sunlight, and it felt like that framed pictures had magically sprouted arms, grabbed you by the neck and made you look.

And forced the cold, hard truth down your throat, even if you did choke on it.

You could hear Michael sigh from behind you and close the door.

And he began.

He began to tell you everything; everything that had happened in the three years you were gone from the three years. It only took a week for you to realize you were going to France and three years for you to fade into the background. You only stared at that picture as Michael spoke on and on, but you made no move stop him.

"When they first told me, I laughed…"

You had to admit Quinn did look pretty with a blue dress, and there he was right there, tuxedo and all. He cradled her, cherished her, kissed her, embraced her…and loved her. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of your gut again. You couldn't believe this Logan Reese was the same guy in the photo – Quinn and Logan gazing at each other like they loved each other and meant it.

All that meant for you was being shoved into the cold, just you loved the snow – frozen rain that was softer at least.

"And then, according to my girlfriend, Lisa, they told each other they loved each other in front of everybody at prom. The school has just some adjusting to do before they're actually cool with it," Michael told you, and laughed, hoping you'd laugh along. You set the picture down. "Hey, at least Logan's nicer to us. It's not by a lot but it's getting there. I think."

You glared, and the laughter died down, before Michael looked at you with genuine concern.

"Are you gonna be okay, Dana?"

So, you loved him. He loved her. And Quinn loved him back.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Michael."

You left the following words unsaid, "I have the bile in my throat, though."

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On the twenty-eighth day, you saw him.

It was when you took a couple days to cool off and let it sink in. You were angry, yes. You were hurt, absolutely. You felt your blood simmer, just simmer. It hadn't reached boiling point. Everybody welcomed you, asked how you were doing, how the experienced in France was, and what you were doing back at PCA.

And then you saw him.

"Hey Reese."

You watched his face go from sort of confused to surprised, and you forced yourself to smirk at this. God, you were going to totally give that smirk, and enjoy it. It didn't matter anyone.

"Dana?"

"Yeah," you replied, pulling your white oversized shades from your eyes. "In the flesh."

You caught the shock in those deep brown eyes once more, before it was his turn to smirk in that cocky manner you hated so much. Because he was bugging you, getting under your damn skin and behaving the way a rash would: itchy and incessant. He was back to bug you, and you were back to narrow your eyes at him as if doing that would force him to disappear.

For the infinite time.

"Well," he said, borrowing his hands in the pockets in his pants with a loose shrug. That smirk never left his face in the two minutes you have been standing. After all, it had been three years and one month since that first real encounter between the two of you. Not that you counted. "Welcome back, Cruz."

He brushed by you, only to kiss Quinn lovingly as a greeting and throw a loose arm comfortably around her shoulders when he entered Sushi Rox.

He whispered something in her ear, which set a light laugh free from her lips.

That day you realized that he wouldn't look at you the same way ever again, and the mere thought made you angry, furious, made you see red, made your blood go past the boiling point.

You left everything and more unsaid, "I hate you, despise you, with every part of my being, Logan Reese, but I love you a little more."

You should have broken more just than his toe in eighth grade.

Because that would have settled the score.

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**A/N: And there it is. Five thousand words for you to read. I tried to keep Dana in character but conflicted, so I hope I pulled it off, and you enjoy it. DL shippers and Quogan lovers alike. No hate reviews – just maturely worded ones. No "DL rules, QL sucks! Blah, blah, blah" You don't like something. Be mature about it. Let me know what you think because I did this as a trial run to see if I got to Dana's mind deep enough. It's been a while since I wrote her. It's a continuation from You Should Have Lied, but you don't have to read to understand this piece. Let's have some FF harmony in '09, shall we? **

**Excuse any errors. I don't have time now, but I will look through and edit tomorrow morning. Okay, I'm off to work on my Quogan oneshot now.**

**Review with more than just "so sad", "loved it" or "update". Again, you will annoy me if you do this. **

**Happy New Year.**

**-Erika **


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